


Show me the playbook

by bemusedbicycle



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-02 18:27:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2821919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bemusedbicycle/pseuds/bemusedbicycle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry plays matchmaker for his mom and his high school football coach Killian Jones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**hail mary.**

“Your coach told you  _what_?” 

Henry is busy stuffing his face full of pasta as only a pre-teen hitting his hormonal glory days can, tomato sauce splattering the front of his jersey. She sighs and tries to remember where she put the stain sticker detergent (if she even bought it at all) and mentally calculates the time it will take to get this jersey clean before the next game. 

 

“He said I have natural talent on defense.” He’s practically bouncing in his seat in excitement, and it’s the first time since he started playing this stupid sport that he’s shown more than a glimmer of real engagement. 

(He started because of Neal - because of his father’s insistence to ditch the books and be a _real man_. Henry was so desperate for his father’s approval that he had come home that night, begging her to let him play, and  _god dammit_  - she couldn’t resist those big brown eyes.)

“Defense? Really?” 

Henry frowns and his shoulder’s drop and she immediately hates herself. She sighs and pops a bit of spinach in her mouth, tilting her head to the side and pressing his pasta bowl closer with her pinky. 

“I just meant I can’t see you as a lineman.” He pokes and prods at his dinner. “Safety, though? Absolutely.” 

 

He grins and she smiles in response, the warmth that accompanies each increasingly rare moment of affection from her son anchoring in her chest. The conversation moves to weekend plans and the girl Lily she’s caught him texting on and off and she decides to let him run off to his room when his skin turns so red it looks like he’s about to burst in flames. 

(It take four washes to get the pasta sauce out, but she smiles the whole time, running her thumb over the  _SWAN_ stitched across the back and thinking of the little boy who used to climb into her bed at 7am with his book of fairytales - nestled safe in her arms.)

-/-

She’s going to kill Neal. 

Murder him on the spot, actually. 

She takes the turn into the school parking lot at an alarming speed, narrowly missing the curb and jerking to a stop. The two silhouettes at the picnic table closest to the school straighten up at her dramatic entrance, and she’s already halfway across the asphalt when they rise to greet her. 

“Henry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t have my phone and - “ 

“It’s cool, Mom.” Henry waves his hand in dismissal and she abruptly shuts her mouth. It isn’t like Henry to take his father’s shortcomings in such stride. This isn’t the first time Neal has forgotten to pick him up from practice, but it is definitely the first time Henry hasn’t been in pieces by the time she finally got there.

(Sometimes she wishes they never came back to New York, that they just stayed in Boston and Neal never had the opportunity to find them. But karma is a bitch, and she would have had to pay up in some way, some time.) 

“Killian hung out with me.” She ruffles his hair with a relieved sigh, turning her attention to the man hanging back by his side, hands deep in his pockets. She gives him a tight grin as she pulls Henry closer, taking in the stubble that covers his cheeks, the lean lines of his body. She doesn’t know what she was expecting when Henry described his football coach, but it certainly wasn’t  _this_. 

(Blue, blue,  _blue_  eyes and a soft smile that crinkles his eyes - holy  _shit_.) 

“Thank you.” She manages in a breathy voice ( _god_ ) _and_  Henry’s eyes narrow in consideration. She rolls her own in response because sometimes the kid is too damn astute for his own good. She coughs to clear her throat (she is  _not_  a teenaged girl) and forces a smile. “I’m sorry you had to wait so long, but I appreciate it.” 

Killian shakes his head after a moment, blinking rapidly and running a hand through his hair. “It’s not a problem.” Oh, an accent, perfect. “I’m sure Mr. Swan just got caught up, aye?” 

She snorts and Henry snickers into her shoulder. At the blank expression Killian tosses the both of them, she hastens to explain. “Oh, no. It’s just us. Henry and I. I mean, there’s Neal, but we’re not - he’s not - “ 

“My parents have never been married. I was an accident when they were stupid teenagers.” Henry gives them both a wide grin before turning and heading towards the car, helmet tucked under his arm. “Thanks, Killian!” 

There’s an awkward silence as they watch Henry climb into the back of the yellow bug and she fidgets, painfully aware of how close he’s standing. 

“Thank you again.” She whispers and he tilts his head to the side, ducking down slightly and peering up at her through his eyelashes. His grin is soft and bashful and the setting sun reflects off the windows of the school, casting them in a dim light that has her fingers itching to card through his hair - see if it’s as soft as it look and  _what the actual fuck is going on?_

_“_ It was a pleasure, Ms. Swan.” The way his lips wrap around the words makes her stomach do stupid things. He nods a bit and she takes a step backwards. “You have a remarkable boy.” 

Her car horn honks and he chuckles - a rough, warm sound that goes straight to her belly. Henry is half-leaning out the car, complaining about how hungry he is, and she is grateful for the distraction. She shoves her hands in her back pockets as she backs towards the car and then - 

“Mom, can Killian come to Granny’s with us?” 

Color rises high in Killian’s cheeks, rivaling the bright red and oranges that streak the sky with the setting sun. “No, no - I don’t want to intrude - “ 

“Yeah.” She cuts him off because  _fuck it_. This man just sat with her son for two hours past the end of practice because his father got to pick him up,  _again_ , and she likes the way he smiles. The least she can do is buy him a greasy BLT. “Want to follow us down?” 

He blinks, surprised no doubt, and then a slow smile curls the corner of his lips. He nods, taking half a step closer, and her breath catches in her throat. 

“Looks like your son is more suited for offense.” He murmurs and  _god_  - no one should sound like that. She smirks and backs away from his warmth, turning on her heel and walking towards the car. 

“See you in ten, Coach.” 

-/-

(His laugh is warm and rich as he steals fries off Henry’s plate, his knee bumping with hers underneath the table and  _okay_  - if she stares at him a little too long the next game, if she volunteers for the bake sale just to see what his mouth looks like with pink frosting in the corners, if she happens to kiss said frosting off his lips tucked behind the shed with her fingers in his hair, well then - 

\- she always did like offense.)


	2. Chapter 2

**quarterback sneak.**

She hasn’t seen him in two weeks, not since the night she curled her hair and put on a pretty dress and he gave her flowers at her door, scratching behind his ear and blushing like an idiot while his eyes lingered on her bare legs. Henry had been grinning like the cat that got the freaking canary the whole time the two of them stood in the foyer of her loft, a smug smile turning the corner of his lips as she gave him pizza money and told him not to order any solicit movies on pay per view. 

It was a perfect first date. His shirt matched his eyes and he asked her questions like he actually  _cared_  - pulling out her chair at the table like some old world gentleman and  _where_  did this guy even come from? 

(London, apparently. Moved here with his brother when he was 17 and just so happened to fall into high school teaching - the coaching something he liked to do because it’s nice to be a part of something.)

(She melted a bit into her pesto penne at the gentle sincerity in his voice, but that is neither here nor there.)

He kissed her under the streetlight on the corner, his fingers gentle as he toyed with an errant curl - the November breeze sweeping around them but doing nothing to cool the fiery heat in her cheeks. It was soft and gentle and perfect and when he pulled her closer with an arm around her waist, she went willingly - tilting her head and letting him deepen it with a whispered sigh. 

(She could have sworn he still tasted like frosting, but perhaps that was muscle memory from the bake sale - his broken groan as she pressed him up against the garden shed behind the school still on loop in her mind.)

 

The sheer  _panic_  hadn’t settled in until she was tucked under the blankets in her bed - the note on the kitchen counter making her roll her eyes in amusement ( _I’m wearing my headphones - you two crazy kids have fun_ ). Killian had left her at her door with a soft smile and an even softer kiss and while she had felt like she was floating - as soon as she was left alone she was in the fiery aftermath of a devastating crash. 

Nothing good ever lasts. 

She couldn’t do it - not with her son’s  _coach_. 

What was she even  _thinking_? 

It was (still is) surprisingly easy to avoid him. After a few ignored calls, he stopped trying - and she makes a valiant attempt  _not_  to notice the way his shoulders slump when she refuses to get out of the car during parent practice pick-up. 

Henry makes it all harder.  

His glares over the breakfast table speak volumes, but she’s evaded the topic successfully so far and honestly - this game is the first time since that night that she’s really looked at Killian.

He looks tired. 

And sad. 

(Fuck.)

Her eyes drift over to him every few moments despite her best intentions to focus on the game, the mom to her immediate right shooting her a glare when she shakes her knee too much in nervous anxiety. She’s so caught up in staring at the back of his neck - remembering the way his fingertips had grazed the apple of her cheek with gentle reverence, the way his eyes had darkened when she grazed her foot along his calf - that she almost doesn’t notice the gasp that ripples it’s way through the crowd. 

Almost. 

She cranes her head over the parents standing in front of her and her heart almost stops beating in her chest when her gaze lands on the back field. 

Henry is flat on his back, and he isn’t moving. 

She’s climbing down the bleachers before she’s even really decided to move, pushing her way out the old chain link fence that separates the field from the stands. The kids on the field have already fallen to their knee and the school nurse is out there but Henry still isn’t moving and oh  _god_  - 

He looks so small - in his pads and helmet - eyes shut as she begs him to wake up. 

There are hands on her shoulders and she recognizes the warmth, but she can’t breath - she _cannot_ breathe. 

An ambulance is called, the red and blue clashing terribly with the Friday night lights overhead. 

She climbs into the back and holds his hand, pressing her lips to his skin over and over again. 

There’s a grass stain on his knee, and she bites her lip against a sob when she tries to remember if she got stain sticker at the store. 

He groans and winces, and she swears she stops breathing again. 

“Mom?” 

She watches his cleats move, and  _god_  - 

She smiles through her tears. “Hey, kid.” 

She follows him into the hospital, legs like noodles as the emergency room staff meets him at the door. She waits in an empty room as they run tests and put him through machines, counting the cracks in the ceiling and trying not to fall apart. It feels like a lifetime later when they wheel him back in - his eyes bright and his hair messy - a hospital gown replacing his jersey and pads. 

Her hands run over every inch of his face, cupping his cheeks and pressing her nose to his forehead. He groans but lets her do it because she’s his mother, god damnit, and she almost _lost_ him and - 

“So did you talk to Killian while I was back there?” 

She stops brushing his hair with shaky hands and pulls back to get a better look at him. “What?” 

“Killian.” Henry raises both eyebrows and adjusts himself in his little bed, wincing when he gets a look at his hospital gown. “Did you talk to him?” 

“Why would I - “

“Oh god, are you kidding?” Henry drops his head back against the pillow and lets out another groan. “All of this for nothing.” He murmurs to himself and she freezes, takes a step back. 

“Henry.” 

He didn’t. 

He  _wouldn’t._

“I’m going to ask you a question and I need you to give me an honest answer, do you understand?” Her voice is shaking but she can’t seem to control it right now because the idea that her son  _faked_  a life threatening injury in order to get her to  _talk_ to a man - well - that is a whole new level of pathetic. 

Even for her. 

Henry nods a bit and scoots further back in his bed, like that will save him.  _Good luck, buddy_. She takes a deep breath. 

“Were you faking a concussion so I would talk to your coach?” 

Henry shrugs, sheepish grin tilting the corners of his lips. “Maybe?” 

“Maybe or yes?” 

“Mom - “ 

The worry crystallizes into rage and she slams her fist down on the railing. Henry jumps, but she sees anger of his own reflected in those big brown eyes of his. 

“And how exactly did you think that would happen, Henry? Did you think I would chat it up with him while my  _son_ was laying unconscious?” 

“Silly me thinking you would thank the poor guy for following the ambulance to the hospital - an ambulance carrying the son of a woman who basically crushed his heart and turned him into some sad sack.” He huffs and she blinks, trying to catch up. “He’s here because he wants us, Mom. All of us, me and you, together. And he came not because he’s trying to bang and leave - “ 

_Jesus_ , she needed to set the parental controls on the tv. 

“ - but because he cares. So let him care. And go out with him again or next time I swear I’ll get more dramatic.” 

The lingering silence is filled by the beating of her heart and the steady beep of the machines around them. Henry maintains eye contact and she is dismayed to discover a lot of her stubborn nature has been passed right on along to her son. She shakes her head, trying to process the whirlwind of information while quelling the aftershocks of panic. 

_He is okay. He is okay._

“You get more dramatic than this?” Is really all she can say. 

Henry snorts. “Don’t press me.” 

-/-

Killian is waiting outside in the lobby, just like Henry said he would be. His hands are in his hair and his shoulders are tense but as soon as she comes through the double doors, he straightens - hesitating only for a moment before striding over quickly. 

He’s holding a bowl of jello.

She falls just a bit harder. 

His fingers twitch at his sides at it aches deep in her chest, the way he’s unsure - the way she’s  _made_  him unsure. 

“I know I have no right to be here - that you don’t want to see me.” His eyes look down and he scratches behind his ear and it’s like a revelation. She inhales sharp through her nose because Henry was right, the little mastermind, and while she doesn’t approve of his techniques (“Your insurance is stellar at the station, Mom, don’t even give me the garbage about hospital bills.”) she can’t say she minds the results. She tunes back in to Killian’s monologue just as he stammers out an apology, color rising high in his cheeks.

“I’m so sorry for everything. I didn’t mean - I didn’t mean to press you on our date and I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. But I thought I should apologize, for encouraging Henry to play on defense. I can’t help but feel this is my fault and - “ 

Her fingers curl into the collar of his football polo and she yanks him forward, cutting off the rest of his apology with her mouth on his. His entire body goes rigid when she nips at his bottom lip and she pulls back just as quick to find bewildered blue eyes looking down at her. 

It’s her turn for a sheepish smile, and she runs her thumb over the sharp line of his jaw. 

“Henry was faking it.” She explains, and one eyebrow arches high on his forehead in surprise. “He wanted me to talk to you, give you a chance.” 

Killian blinks and she watches the relief wash over him - followed closely by realization. He relaxes in her death grip and sways closer, ignoring the nurse staring at them with obvious disapproval from behind the check-in desk. 

His fingers slide against the small of her back and it’s a wonder she doesn’t just melt into the ground, his eyes shining in the terrible fluorescents. 

“Did it work?” 

She nods and he kisses the smile from her lips. 

(Henry is smug propped up in his bed, watching  _Doomsday Preppers_  when they stroll in hand-in-hand, gratefully taking the jello from Killian.)

(The doctor is bewildered to find nothing wrong.)

(Henry’s grin doubles.)

 

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Killian has to chaperone the high school Christmas dance, and he asks Emma if she will accompany him._

**double coverage.**

He bought her a corsage.  

She fingers the holly berries tucked neatly against a single red rose as they drive to the school, Christmas music playing lightly on the car radio, fighting back a smile and the burning in her eyes because she went to prom – she did the high school dance thing – but she was six months pregnant and Neal had been late and  _drunk_ and this is –

– this is nice.

 _He_ is nice.

(And funny and charming and kind of dirty-minded, now that she thinks about it, but she likes it – likes every piece of him and sometimes she thinks she might even love him and it should scare her more than this, right? It should be scary.)

(But it’s not.)

“Are you sure Henry is okay with my bringing you?” He glances over at her from the corner of his eye as they turn into the school parking lot, passing crowds of teenagers running back and forth in poorly made formal wear. He scowls, and she laughs. “I don’t want him to – “

“Be embarrassed by his lame mom at a school dance?” Killian shrugs like he can’t quite argue with her and she flicks him in the shoulder. “I caught him sneaking out a blanket and some snacks in a backpack, so I sincerely doubt my dear son will even make it to the dance.”

The car jerks to a stop as he puts it in park (the man and his vintage vehicles, honestly) and he shifts in his seat, letting the engine run and the music linger in the little bubble around them as he reaches for the end of her hair. He loops a strand lightly around his fingers and tugs, smiling when she leans forward and meets his lips.

He tastes like the hot chocolate she made him while she was getting ready – sweetness and spice and everything nice.

(She definitely loves him.)

“Well then I owe him great thanks.”

Her grin spreads a bit wider, even if he talks like he’s from another freaking century.

-/-

She’s right about Henry. He doesn’t show at the dance and she smirks a bit to herself because the kid is too much like her for her own damned good. But he is smart and kind and she doesn’t worry (much) about what sort of adventures he is up to with the pretty red head he was supposed to take to this thing.

(The text message ‘ _Lily and I decided to bail and hit up the wharfs for some debauchery – just kidding, maybe. Have a good time tonight and don’t get Killian fired from his job.’_ quickly followed by  _‘I’ll be safe, I promise. I love you, mom.’_ certainly helped ease the ache in her breast bone when she saw him clatter down the stairs in a hoodie instead of his dress shirt, backpack over his shoulder.)

She, however, is scarred for life by the things she’s seen from the general high school population. She’s sure it wasn’t like this when she was in high school – the way they grind their bodies up against one another in some weird sort of tribal sacrifice dance. But then again, she got pregnant in high school, so maybe it’s not so different.

“And you teach these kids?”

Killian’s face pinches together as he scans the crowded gym, the reds from the mood lighting above casting his face half in shadow. He sips at the punch cup in his hand and slides a bit closer to her side, arm wrapping around her shoulders when a pack of boys stray too close, their beady little eyes lingering on the hem of her dress line.

“Aye, and I do think this is the last time I volunteer for a school dance.” He finishes his drink and places it on the snack table they are supposed to be monitoring. “Would you like to get a breath of fresh air?”

She’s come to learn that when his eyebrow arches high on his forehead, she will definitely like the results of whatever he is thinking.

Plus, the music (if she hears  _Fireball_  one more time, she might explode) is starting to give her a headache.

“Hell yes.”

-/-

Apparently fresh air means his classroom, because she finds herself leaning on his desk ten minutes later, his door carefully clicked shut. She hears him flick the lock and she  _definitely_ likes whatever was going on in that brilliant mind of is, tilting her head as he slowly walks over to her, letting her eyes linger on the way he looks in a white, fitted button down and red tie.

(His hair is still a mess, chaotic like he’s just rolled out of bed – like her fingers have spent the evening running through it or gripping on to it for dear life.)  

“Your tie matches my dress.” She says quietly, liking the way the darkness and shadow wrap around them. Everything feels still and peaceful, and the way he’s gazing at her is doing weird (amazing) things to her stomach.

He rubs his thumb along the collar of her dress, her breath hitching when he grazes the skin at the tops of her breasts.

“Hmm, so it does.” He shifts a bit closer to her, forcing her back further against the desk until she’s leaning her full body weight on to it. There’s a sign over his shoulder that reads ‘ _T.E.A.M.W.O.R.K, The ability to work together toward a common vision’_  and she’s never been more on board in her life.

“Did you know, Swan,” his hand grips at her hip as his nose bumps against hers. “That you are supposed to kiss beneath the mistletoe?”

She tilts her head back to look at the ceiling, and sure enough, there hanging neatly from the ceiling tiles that have seen better days, is a small bundle of mistletoe with holly berries that suspiciously match the ones around her wrist.

“Well,” She licks her lips and grins at the sound he makes. “I sure hope this was all prearranged and you haven’t had mistletoe hanging over your desk all week, because that sounds like a felony waiting to happen and I’ve  _seen_  the way those girls look at you and some of the – “

He cuts her off with his mouth on hers, stealing her breath and pulling her closer. She closes her eyes and falls into him, gripping his face between her palms and letting him guide the pace, a moan catching in her throat when he lifts up on her hips and slides her back on his desk, pens and pencils and a stack of papers crashing to the floor.

“This some sort of weird fantasy of yours?” His mouth is under her ear and he is definitely showing signs of  _‘P.E.R.S.E.R.V.E.R.A.N.C.E, Seeing a job through’_ when his teeth nip at her earring, tugging lightly.

“Would you rather go back to the auditorium, love?”

She snickers and grips his hair between her fingers, messing it up further and guiding his mouth to hers.

“No.” She replies simply, and his smile tastes delicious on her lips. She loses track of time as he kisses her senseless, her leg wrapping around the back of his knee and pulling him flush against her. They keep it slow and steady and neither make a move to take it further regardless of the way heat is coiling low in her belly and how she can feel the way he wants her pressed against the inside of her thigh. She is mindful of the fact that this is a school, his workplace, her  _son’s_  school – and getting caught doing the dirty on his desk would probably not be kosher.

(There is a perfectly comfortable bed with soft flannel sheets at his house that she intends on reacquainting herself with later.)

She thumbs at the scar on his cheek when he pulls away, resting her forehead against his and exhaling a shaky breath. The way he makes her feel is something she’s still not quite used to, and she hopes she never is.

“Emma, I think – “ He swallows hard and her heart beats faster in her chest because she can feel the significance in the air, a heavy sort of giddy feeling that shakes at her bones. “No, in fact I’m certain that I – “

“I love you.” She cuts him off and it’s such a relief to finally say it – that bursting feeling that’s been tugging at her ever since she woke up and he was standing in the kitchen humming under his breath while Henry rattled on about Lily and he had been making  _pancakes_  for god’s sake – pressing a kiss to her head while passing her a plate and she – she loves him. “I love you a lot.”

His hand cups her face, fingers trailing over her cheekbone. “Emma, I love you so – “

“Wait, did you say you volunteered to chaperone?” He blinks at her blankly, mouth setting into a line of consternation at her complete destruction of his declaration. “I thought you said you had to do this.”

He scratches behind his ear and shuffles back and forth between her legs. “Well, you’ve told me of your high school experience, and it may seem a bit silly, but I just thought it would be nice if you attended a proper dance.” A smirk curls his lips. “Complete with sneak away snogging.”

The warmth in her chest spreads – the burning behind her eyes back. She crushes him to her with her fingers wrapped around that stupid tie and if she thought his smile tasted good, it’s nothing compared to his laugh.

“I love you.” She sighs and he steps back, helping her down from the desk and stepping over the school supply carnage. He presses a kiss to her hand and guides her to the door, that damned eyebrow telling her he has some things in mind, and she’s inclined to believe she will enjoy them.

“I love you as well, you bloody stubborn woman.”

 -/-

(He remembers halfway down the hallway that he left the mistletoe hanging up, and he jogs back to the room to take it down before Monday morning classes. She snickers all the way home until he promptly shuts her up.)

(She was right about the eyebrow.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a long time since Emma Swan has cried in a bathroom stall because of people talking shit.

**intentional grounding.**

She doesn’t notice it at first.

Well, she does, but she chooses to ignore it because she’s dealt with this before - catty women who think she’s something she’s not. First in high school when the popular girls mocked her swollen belly and she had to eat her lunch alone in the bathroom stall to avoid their snickering laughter and not-so-sly remarks and then again - when she was older, pushing Henry through the supermarket with bags under her eyes and tight leather pants, still wearing makeup from the bar because it was a job and they needed money and snagging bounties was great, but Henry was growing like a weed and the tips she made at the bar were enough to cover new sneakers and the cereal he really liked, even if the comments from half-drunk men kind of (really) sucked.

She knows what they say about single mothers. She’s not an idiot.

So when she sees Katie Karkin whisper something to Janet Gallagher, the both of them shooting her some suspicious side eye, she ignores it - chooses instead to cross her legs at the ankle and watch Henry cover the massive kid from North East High and take another bite of her hot dog. Killian is wearing his baseball hat backwards and she tilts her head to the side as she considers him, watching as he paces up and down the sidelines and tries not to lose his shit on the ref. She grins to herself, and starts to brainstorm some ideas on how he can expend that energy later.

-/-

“She calls him  _Killian_  - in this sappy, sweet tone. It’s disgusting, and there’s no way they aren’t sleeping together.” She almost falls down the bleachers, steadying herself on the railing as the two women cackle together in delight. Color floods her cheeks and honestly, she should be used to this by now, but -

“I just think it’s inappropriate that you can sleep you way into getting your son more playing time. I mean I’m not saying she’s a slut, but have you heard - “

She breathes in sharp through her nose and clambers down the rest of then way to the field, her stomach rolling in anxiety and pressure building behind her eyes. It’s the end of the game, parents and students and faculty members swarming out of the stands and trying to navigate their way to the parking lot and she’s never been more glad for the anonymity. She’s sure Henry is with Killian - they typically find her together after games - so she makes her way to the school building instead, taking steadying breaths in and out, in and out, before she can get into a bathroom stall and bolt the door.

She stares at the  _fuck the patriarchy_ scribbled in sharpie on the back of the muted green paint that’s peeling at the edges and wills herself not to cry. It’s been 17 years since she cried in a bathroom stall, and she’s not about to start again now. Not because of fucking Katie Karkin. Or Janet Gallagher and her tacky Ugg boots.

_I mean I’m not saying she’s a slut, but -_

She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes until she sees spots, her phone buzzing in the pocket of her jacket. Henry and Killian will be waiting by now, the both of them starving and campaigning for pizza, no doubt.

She runs her fingertips beneath her eyes and stands, practicing her smile in the mirror and only leaving when she feels like she’s convincing enough.

“Hey Mom, where were you? Can we get pizza - whoa - “ Henry stops shorts, his helmet under his arm, his eyebrows pulled together. “Are you alright?”

She forces that same grin, the one that stretches her face until she feels borderline homicidal, and runs her fingers through his hair. She makes sure to keep her gaze away from Killian.

“Yeah, kid. I’m good.” She turns and heads for the car, her arm thrown over his shoulders and his bulky pads. He’s almost as tall as she is now, and she’s having a hard time dealing with that. “Pizza it is.”

-/-

“What is it?”

She burrows down further in the sheets, pressing her nose into the v of his t shirt and sliding her palm along the hem of his sleep pants, hoping to distract him with her fingers on his skin. “What is what?”

He sighs and tangles his fingers in her hair, guiding her head back until he can give her a disapproving look in the quiet stillness of her bedroom. He’s been staying over more and more lately, and the key she had made for him three weeks ago is practically burning a hole in her bag by the door. She wants to give it to him, wants him to finally move in here and bring those god damned flannel sheets she loves so much with him, but -

_\- sleep you way into getting your son more playing time -_

But that.

“It’s nothing. It’s just been a long week.” She shifts up until she can press her lips to his, smoothing her thumb along the tip of his ear. “Can we go to sleep?”

She can feel the tension in his shoulders but she ignores it, turning on her side and fitting her hips back against his. He presses a kiss to the back of her neck and nuzzles down in her hair in the way that he likes, his heavy breath of defeat warm against her skin. She almost starts to cry again.

“As you wish.”

-/-

She practically takes out a stop sign in her haste to park the car when she gets to the school, trying to get out of the seat three times before she realizes she needs to unbuckle the belt before she does so.

Suspended. Henry has been  _suspended._

For fighting. Of all things.

He’s sitting in the office when she bursts through the door, his face a storm cloud and his arms crossed over his chest, the knuckles on his left hand already bruising. But there’s no marks on his face as far as she can tell and she had an oddly-timed twinge of pride - that her kid can get in a fight and emerge unscathed. Apparently all those self-defense classes with his overbearing uncle paid off - not that she intends to mention that to David any time soon.

“Henry,” She drops to her knees in front of him, her purse sliding against the linoleum. “What happened? Are you alright?”

His jaw clenches and unclenches and she’s not sure she’s ever seen him this angry before. Not even when she banned him from using his xbox for a week, and that meltdown had been pretty apocalyptic.

“I’m fine. Can we go now?” She blinks at him, not knowing if there is paperwork she needs to fill out, or someone she needs to speak to. She really hopes there isn’t some counseling segment attached with this suspension thing, because the last thing she needs is someone to tell her how to raise her kid. She opens her mouth to respond, but is cut off by the door she just came through creaking open, an unamused scoff somewhere in the space behind her.

“Of course it’s you.” She turns her head and regards the woman, recognizing the shiny bob and eyebrows tweezed to within an inch of their life anywhere - Katie Karkin. “Of course it would be your son to attack mine.”

She feels her spine straighten at the obvious malice in the other woman’s voice, the prickle of a good fight brewing between her shoulders. Henry shifts out of the corner of her eye, and she takes a step closer to him, angling her body between the bitch in the knock-off Prada and her son. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not surprised it’s your child who flew off in a rage and attacked mine.”

The door to the office opens again and this time it’s Killian who strolls in, blue eyes blown wide in concern. Emma has a single moment of calm reassurance, his gaze finding hers as Henry continues to sulk in front of her and Katie Karkin makes an interesting noise of contempt low in her throat, and then the principal’s office door opens and all hell breaks loose.

As soon as Principal Mills emerges with the boy her son obviously punched right in the face, a purple bruise already blossoming in the hollow of his eye and along the bridge of his nose, Katie Karkin loses her shit. Her son, however, immediately launches himself at Henry and Killian just barely manages to insert himself between the two boys, palms pressed against either chest as the boy with the mangled face shouts something about “cheap shot, coward move, spineless little shit” and she’s not about to stand here and watch her son get torn apart, especially when Katie Karkin opens her plastic mouth and mutters something about “like mother, like son” and she’s so busy focusing on the train wreck of a woman next to her that she doesn’t hear what Henry mutters under his breath, just sees Killian go ramrod straight, that interesting tic in his jaw and -

“Enough!” Regina Mills is every inch queen of the castle as her voice booms around the office. “I suggest you both leave before I increase your suspensions.” She arches an eyebrow and Emma feels an actual shiver roll down her spine. “Now.”

Apparently, the paperwork can wait.

She gathers Henry and Killian and his things in silence, the three of them making a quick exit to her bug parked haphazardly in the spot closest to the door.

They sit in silence once the doors shut, her blood humming beneath her skin and her jaw set. She can feel the tension radiating off Killian next to her, and she tries to remember the breathing exercises she learned in the stress management course David forced her into six years ago.

“Lad,” Killian doesn’t turn around in his seat, just keeps facing forward and attempting to set the tree aflame with his mind, apparently. “Was Thomas talking negative about your mother?”

Henry snorts - a dark, humorless sound. “He called her a whore and I punched him in the face.”

A smile twitches at the corners of her mouth. Killian finally turns around in the passenger seat.

“We’re going to get ice cream.”

-/-

The next home game she’s sitting in her usual place on the bleachers, her usual hot dog in her hand, when she spots Killian making his way up to her with his careful, measured steps. He sits down next to her and pulls the book folded in his back pocket out, flattening it against his knee and leaning over to take a bite out of her hot dog.

“What are you doing?”

He smiles through a mouthful of roll and processed meat, her thumb swiping at the mustard on his bottom lip without thought. “I’m eating. I haven’t had dinner yet.”

“Shouldn’t you be down there with your team?”

He goes for another bite and she moves it out of reach, narrowing her eyes at him when he pouts. “It’s not my team anymore, love. Robin is taking over. I’m strictly statistics now.” A smile starts to tug at his bottom lip. “You’re more important to me than managing a bunch of hormonal teenagers. I’ll not have that infernal woman say another word about you.”

She stares at him, her mouth opening and closing several times as something warm and overbearing pushes at her chest. He’s looking at her in that steady way he sometimes does - like he does early in the morning when she snores herself awake and he’s gazing down at her with sunlight on his skin, like he does when her and Henry are bouncing about, pretending they are ACDC in the golden years and he’s shaking his head and doing his best to keep dinner from burning. She shoves the rest of her hot dog in her mouth and blinks her eyes rapidly against a very different kind of burning.

“Do you wanna move in with us?”

His smile grows, that one that makes her a bit breathless and weak in the knees - god damn him. “About time you asked, Swan. That key’s been in your sock drawer for close to a month.”

She kisses the smile from his lips, and maybe flicks off Katie Karkin while she does it.


End file.
